Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

Ordinary Folk

Ordinary Folk

A Gong resounds yet again but its echo is sublime.
A mass of upraised eyes look Heaven ward for succour,
searching for the Town Crier.
When shall Manna come?

Various eyes,
Projected…skywards…
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
Ordinary folk,
living ordinary life’s of hope and promise.
Where did we get it wrong?

A little leaf sashays down in a gust of wind,
obeying the force of nature.
And us folk seat and reminisce in rocking chairs.
What did we do with our extant opportunities?

Beggarly little black kids for the umpteenth time
reach out anew for alms.
It’s a scenario that global television networks love,
a template that showcases blight ;
real or imagined,
across from Congo to Darfur then
Kigali, arcing back back to Bauchi,
sweeping across the desert to Timbuktu,
before zeroing in to Freetown.

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise,
despite the institutional betrayals;
minding their Goddamn business.
Ordinary folk,
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys…
Some sad,
some happy.
Most safe…Did I hear cowardly?

That errant little leaf strikes a dirty pond
on a pot hole strewn tarred road in our backyard.
The concentric circles that leap out from this chance encounter,
impacts on itself,
becoming attuned to passivity…
Becoming part of the surface tableau…

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
like wrinkled leafs floating on dirty ponds.

A Gong resounds yet again but its echo is sublime.
A mass of upraised eyes look Heaven ward for succour,
searching for the Town Crier.
When shall Manna come?

Various eyes,
Projected…skywards…
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
Ordinary folk,
living ordinary life’s of hope and promise.
Where did we get it wrong?

A little leaf sashays down in a gust of wind,
obeying the force of nature.
And us folk seat and reminisce in rocking chairs.
What did we do with our extant opportunities?

Beggarly little black kids for the umpteenth time
reach out anew for alms.
It’s a scenario that global television networks love,
a template that showcases blight ;
real or imagined,
across from Congo to Darfur then
Kigali, arcing back back to Bauchi,
sweeping across the desert to Timbuktu,
before zeroing in to Freetown.

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise,
despite the institutional betrayals;
minding their Goddamn business.
Ordinary folk,
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys…
Some sad,
some happy.
Most safe…Did I hear cowardly?

That errant little leaf strikes a dirty pond
on a pot hole strewn tarred road in our backyard.
The concentric circles that leap out from this chance encounter,
impacts on itself,
becoming attuned to passivity…
Becoming part of the surface tableau…

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
like wrinkled leafs floating on dirty ponds.

Obanya

Featured Poem:

Mr Mai Ruwa

Featured Poem:

Mr Mai Ruwa

I am Mai Ruwa, who provides a much needed service to both the rich and the poor.
I come from a twilight zone where nothing works. Some call it Gwagwalada, Some call it Ajegunle, Most shout: Sodom and Gomorrah.
I live with the voiceless masses that ecke out a living of patience and guts… but for how long?
Before I set out in the morning, I wear my mantle of responsibility. After all, It is not easy to assume the responsibility of government.
I am Mai Ruwa, who supplies the rich and the poor with a precious cargo. My 6 Jerry cans of water, filled and refilled, on a continuous basis, keeps me busy to and fro.

I am Mai Ruwa, who provides a much needed service to both the rich and the poor.
I come from a twilight zone where nothing works. Some call it Gwagwalada, Some call it Ajegunle, Most shout: Sodom and Gomorrah.
I live with the voiceless masses that ecke out a living of patience and guts… but for how long?
Before I set out in the morning, I wear my mantle of responsibility. After all, It is not easy to assume the responsibility of government.
I am Mai Ruwa, who supplies the rich and the poor with a precious cargo. My 6 Jerry cans of water, filled and refilled, on a continuous basis, keeps me busy to and fro.

Comments

Biography

A Marketing Communications specialist, Obanya has worked and managed advertising strategy for several global brands in Africa. He is a novelist and a poet with published and unpublished works. His published works are, Him Bone Poetree and Sickles Raised from Dust.

He is in the process of publishing a new novel titled, Ijambody and a new book of poems titled, Ambient Noon and other poems.

He currently lives in Lagos, Nigeria or Accra, Ghana.

Obanya

Biography

A Marketing Communications specialist, Obanya has worked and managed advertising strategy for several global brands in Africa. He is a novelist and a poet with published and unpublished works. His published works are, Him Bone Poetree and Sickles Raised from Dust.

He is in the process of publishing a new novel titled, Ijambody and a new book of poems titled, Ambient Noon and other poems.

Ordinary Folk

Ordinary Folk

A Gong resounds yet again but its echo is sublime.
A mass of upraised eyes look Heaven ward for succour,
searching for the Town Crier.
When shall Manna come?

Various eyes,
Projected…skywards…
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
Ordinary folk,
living ordinary life’s of hope and promise.
Where did we get it wrong?

A little leaf sashays down in a gust of wind,
obeying the force of nature.
And us folk seat and reminisce in rocking chairs.
What did we do with our extant opportunities?

Beggarly little black kids for the umpteenth time
reach out anew for alms.
It’s a scenario that global television networks love,
a template that showcases blight ;
real or imagined,
across from Congo to Darfur then
Kigali, arcing back back to Bauchi,
sweeping across the desert to Timbuktu,
before zeroing in to Freetown.

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise,
despite the institutional betrayals;
minding their Goddamn business.
Ordinary folk,
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys…
Some sad,
some happy.
Most safe…Did I hear cowardly?

That errant little leaf strikes a dirty pond
on a pot hole strewn tarred road in our backyard.
The concentric circles that leap out from this chance encounter,
impacts on itself,
becoming attuned to passivity…
Becoming part of the surface tableau…

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
like wrinkled leafs floating on dirty ponds.

A Gong resounds yet again but its echo is sublime.
A mass of upraised eyes look Heaven ward for succour,
searching for the Town Crier.
When shall Manna come?

Various eyes,
Projected…skywards…
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
Ordinary folk,
living ordinary life’s of hope and promise.
Where did we get it wrong?

A little leaf sashays down in a gust of wind,
obeying the force of nature.
And us folk seat and reminisce in rocking chairs.
What did we do with our extant opportunities?

Beggarly little black kids for the umpteenth time
reach out anew for alms.
It’s a scenario that global television networks love,
a template that showcases blight ;
real or imagined,
across from Congo to Darfur then
Kigali, arcing back back to Bauchi,
sweeping across the desert to Timbuktu,
before zeroing in to Freetown.

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise,
despite the institutional betrayals;
minding their Goddamn business.
Ordinary folk,
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys…
Some sad,
some happy.
Most safe…Did I hear cowardly?

That errant little leaf strikes a dirty pond
on a pot hole strewn tarred road in our backyard.
The concentric circles that leap out from this chance encounter,
impacts on itself,
becoming attuned to passivity…
Becoming part of the surface tableau…

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
like wrinkled leafs floating on dirty ponds.

Featured Poem:

Mr Mai Ruwa

Featured Poem:

Mr Mai Ruwa

I am Mai Ruwa, who provides a much needed service to both the rich and the poor.
I come from a twilight zone where nothing works. Some call it Gwagwalada, Some call it Ajegunle, Most shout: Sodom and Gomorrah.
I live with the voiceless masses that ecke out a living of patience and guts… but for how long?
Before I set out in the morning, I wear my mantle of responsibility. After all, It is not easy to assume the responsibility of government.
I am Mai Ruwa, who supplies the rich and the poor with a precious cargo. My 6 Jerry cans of water, filled and refilled, on a continuous basis, keeps me busy to and fro.

I am Mai Ruwa, who provides a much needed service to both the rich and the poor.
I come from a twilight zone where nothing works. Some call it Gwagwalada, Some call it Ajegunle, Most shout: Sodom and Gomorrah.
I live with the voiceless masses that ecke out a living of patience and guts… but for how long?
Before I set out in the morning, I wear my mantle of responsibility. After all, It is not easy to assume the responsibility of government.
I am Mai Ruwa, who supplies the rich and the poor with a precious cargo. My 6 Jerry cans of water, filled and refilled, on a continuous basis, keeps me busy to and fro.

Ordinary Folk

Ordinary Folk

A Gong resounds yet again but its echo is sublime.
A mass of upraised eyes look Heaven ward for succour,
searching for the Town Crier.
When shall Manna come?

Various eyes,
Projected…skywards…
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
Ordinary folk,
living ordinary life’s of hope and promise.
Where did we get it wrong?

A little leaf sashays down in a gust of wind,
obeying the force of nature.
And us folk seat and reminisce in rocking chairs.
What did we do with our extant opportunities?

Beggarly little black kids for the umpteenth time
reach out anew for alms.
It’s a scenario that global television networks love,
a template that showcases blight ;
real or imagined,
across from Congo to Darfur then
Kigali, arcing back back to Bauchi,
sweeping across the desert to Timbuktu,
before zeroing in to Freetown.

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise,
despite the institutional betrayals;
minding their Goddamn business.
Ordinary folk,
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys…
Some sad,
some happy.
Most safe…Did I hear cowardly?

That errant little leaf strikes a dirty pond
on a pot hole strewn tarred road in our backyard.
The concentric circles that leap out from this chance encounter,
impacts on itself,
becoming attuned to passivity…
Becoming part of the surface tableau…

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
like wrinkled leafs floating on dirty ponds.

A Gong resounds yet again but its echo is sublime.
A mass of upraised eyes look Heaven ward for succour,
searching for the Town Crier.
When shall Manna come?

Various eyes,
Projected…skywards…
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
Ordinary folk,
living ordinary life’s of hope and promise.
Where did we get it wrong?

A little leaf sashays down in a gust of wind,
obeying the force of nature.
And us folk seat and reminisce in rocking chairs.
What did we do with our extant opportunities?

Beggarly little black kids for the umpteenth time
reach out anew for alms.
It’s a scenario that global television networks love,
a template that showcases blight ;
real or imagined,
across from Congo to Darfur then
Kigali, arcing back back to Bauchi,
sweeping across the desert to Timbuktu,
before zeroing in to Freetown.

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise,
despite the institutional betrayals;
minding their Goddamn business.
Ordinary folk,
Reflecting their life’s worth of journeys…
Some sad,
some happy.
Most safe…Did I hear cowardly?

That errant little leaf strikes a dirty pond
on a pot hole strewn tarred road in our backyard.
The concentric circles that leap out from this chance encounter,
impacts on itself,
becoming attuned to passivity…
Becoming part of the surface tableau…

Ordinary folk,
living ordinary lives of hope and promise.
Some sad,
some happy.
Most,
like wrinkled leafs floating on dirty ponds.